arcane
by ShadowsTakeAll
Summary: When the demon came tap-tap-tapping at his mind, he'd opened the door. (or: Stiles and the nogitsune paint the town blood-red.)


**Well. I don't even really know what to say. Okay, so first of all, picture credit goes to Alex-Soler on DeviantArt. This is kind of a songfic, so the italics belong to Famous Last Words, from the song The Show Must Go On - which is the entire reason I wrote this story. Everything else belongs to me. Except, you know, Teen Wolf and everything associated with it.  
**

**Warnings: this is a very dark, depressing, disturbing story. Multiple character deaths, implied torture, lots of blood, strong language - just be warned, if you choose to read ahead.**

**There's not much else to say about this one, I guess. Just that, as always, I love messing with styles, if it seems weird, that's probably because it is. Reviews are very welcome. Uh, enjoy?**

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_I must accept these consequences for my actions  
__when all I did was what the world told me I should do._

The pack begged him to fight; his father told him never to give up. He'd tried, he really had. But when the demon came tap-**tap**-_tapping_ at his mind, he'd opened the door. Held it wide, frozen in place by sheer surprise. Just long enough for the enemy to come waltzing in. Long enough to lose control. (Too long.)

Stiles Stilinski. Class clown, sidekick to Scott McCall. Member of the pack, son of the sheriff, friend of hunters and werewolves alike. And now he can add another thing to the list: host to a thousand-year-old Japanese demon.

It's been a week, a month, a year; he can't tell, and he doesn't care.

Bodies pile up, bones caught in his hands and blood smeared across his cheek. He doesn't bother cleaning up after himself now. The smell of death surrounds him, no matter how hard he tries to wash it off. (He doesn't try very hard anymore.)

He dreams of chaos, raging fires and cleansing floods. Lydia screams; the nogitsune laughs.

And Stiles just tries to get the bloodstains out of his new jeans.

_And do anything for my dreams, if only I knew  
__the cost of my dreams, AKA **you**… would be you._

It's late one night when the idea comes to him. A flash of a feeling, a hint of knowledge that catches in his teeth. There was always going to be a price, a sacrifice. At first Stiles wanted to save his friends, but he's given up on that notion now. These days he just wants it to be over. But there's something holding him back, something stopping him.

His anchor.

They haven't spoken in months. Not since the incident with the pack, when that damn werecoyote got in his way. (Her neck had snapped so easily.) That was when the pack really, truly knew he was gone. The demon let Stiles have control that night, afterward. Neither of them remember what happened next, but they woke up in some girl's bed in some cheap hotel room smelling of blood and booze.

(That one they had cleaned up.)

It's early morning when Stiles stops fighting the idea. His hands are wet with blood already; it sticks in his throat and coats his heart. The nogitsune smiles, knowing that today will be a good day.

It's the day that Lydia Martin will die.

_I'm dead now!_

Night falls, and they move. Stiles is in the back of his mind, leaning against the wall, world-weary and soul-sick. He doesn't even fight anymore.

His footsteps echo on the pavement and the nogitsune's words echo in his head. He wonders why Lydia didn't scream for him. Doesn't she know he's dead?

Scott does. Those blood-red eyes had stared into his soul, had known it was too late. Stiles had never seen Scott so torn up, so furious, so devastated. (But that was before what happened with Allison.) In that moment, his hands covered in his friend's blood and a sword rammed through his shoulder, Scott had vowed to kill his best friend.

It's a fool's quest, because there's nothing left to kill.

_The nightmare is slowly taking over.  
__All that's happened, it is enabling him to  
__take exactly what he wants._

Her house is dark, quiet. Her mother's out of town, her pack is nowhere in sight. The front door slides open easily, and it's a short walk to her room. Stiles is in control now, and he's dimly aware of that, but it doesn't occur to him to leave.

Mechanical movements, blank eyes. He walks down the hall.

Isaac had been the first to go; that one hadn't been premeditated. Wrong place, wrong time. Turns out werewolves aren't very good swimmers with weights tied round their ankles.

Stiles had waited until the bubbles all popped before he turned his back on the lake and walked home in the dark.

That sparked the demon's fire, caused him to lust after chaos and strife.

Stiles just went along for the ride.

_Until he gets what he desires,  
__we'll be at his whim._

It hadn't taken long for the pack to find him. They'd cornered him in his own house, backed him into the corner. Stiles had discovered that Allison's arrows work just as well on banshees as werewolves.

And they work even better on hunters.

He thinks they might have forgiven him for that. They'd told him later that it was okay, that it wasn't really him. Allison had even half-smiled, her hand rubbing the wound on her shoulder. Stiles had listened patiently, and then knocked them both out.

At first Stiles had resisted, but the demon always got what it wanted. And what it wanted was chaos. Destruction. Death.

It comes easily now.

_My inner demon, he is screamin' at me, "Take her now!  
__This is your only chance, won't get another, don't let me down."_

She looks so peaceful.

Her hands are curled around the edges of the blanket; she's lying on her back, head resting on her pillow, covers pulled up almost to her chin. (Too easy.)

Stiles hesitates, but not for long. As he reaches her bed she wakes, slowly at first and then all at once, bolting upright. A thousand emotions flit across her face, and then she catches one.

It's not surprise.

It's not fear.

It's _hope_.

(This is going to be good.)

_"Don't fucking whine.  
__the deed is done you'll be just fine."_

The one that had really hurt was Allison. This was after Malia, after Isaac. Just before Kira.

Stiles hadn't even been looking for her, but he found her. She showed up one afternoon in his little rented apartment, alone. When he walked in the door she was sitting in the old rocking chair, crossbow in her lap and fire in her eyes.

(First he fed the fire.)

He let her think there was a chance. The demon let Stiles slip through, let him convince Allison that it was him and that she could save him. That was when Stiles was still himself, before he became more demon than human.

She'd whispered his name, half-risen from the chair. He'd snapped the crossbow in half and flung her across the room.

(Then he snuffed it out.)

_"So you want true romance?  
__Throw the dice, take a chance."_

Lydia is watching him. One hand is curled into a fist; the other is digging into her arm. Her eyes dart down, flicking over his hand. He laughs. Eight, nine, _ten_. She finishes counting his fingers, finishes trying to convince herself that this is a dream.

He loves her. He's always loved her.

And that's why she has to die.

She reaches for him, her hand brushing his cheek, and he stiffens. Surprised, not scared. And she's not scared either. (Not yet.)

He lets her stay there for a moment and then his hand snaps out, latches onto her wrist.

She's not so peaceful now.

_"Why won't you let me in, just let me in!  
__We'll masquerade this awkward phase that we're stuck in.  
__If you accept me and forever be by my side.  
__Remember what I said? Every day's a new sunrise."_

Like a true hunter, Allison had gone down fighting. (Drenched in blood and vowing vengeance.) He'd held the knife in her as she sank to the floor, and then he'd yanked it out. He had work to do.

He watched from the trees that night as Scott came home. Paused on his doorstep. Fell to his knees. Lydia showed up later, voice still hoarse from her scream, heart already broken even before she saw the blood-soaked body.

It was artistic, in a way. Almost poetic. The body of his first love, left there on his doorstep.

Scott had cried for days. So had Stiles.

But Scott had his pack, and all Stiles had was a demon.

_"So let's just act pretend like this never happened.  
__I'm your arcane guardian.  
__Just let me in."_

Not long after that, Stiles had given up. For real, for good, for the simple fact that _he couldn't keep fighting anymore_.

He hadn't realized it was irreversible; once the demon took control, Stiles could never have it back, not really. But he probably would have done it anyway. He swears he'd heard Scott howl that night, as if he'd known what he lost.

Isaac, Malia, Allison, Kira. One by one.

He visited their graves once. They're all side by side, in between a couple of willow trees. Stiles noted that there was still room there between the trees, as if Scott had known that they'd be needing it.

Four down, two to go.

_You know our love is caught in your eyes.  
__And those hazel eyes  
__they terrorize, they terrorize!_

If Stiles was still Stiles, the sight before him would break his heart.

Lydia's pleading with him, telling him that he doesn't have to do this and they can still save him and _can he please just let her go. _He tries to tell her that he can't, but she doesn't listen. She tries to pull away, but he's stronger.

For once in his life, he's strong. (Even if it's not really him.)

Stiles had pined over her for years, had trailed her around like a lost puppy, and now she's the one who's lost. She'll never be found; she's never coming back.

The tires rumble along the road, background noise to the sound of Lydia sobbing. He starts to tell her that it has to be this way, but then he stops.

She catches his eye and a tear rolls down her cheek.

He looks away.

_Don't let me down.  
__If I can't have you, I will never be found._

They drive for an hour. Then another.

Lydia stops crying; at one point she even sleeps. But then she wakes up and she's sobbing again and Stiles turns the radio on to drown her out. She asks where they're going, and he doesn't tell her. Then she makes the mistake of asking him what he's done, and he does tell her.

She bites back her sobs and stares at him in horror. She doesn't understand the beauty of it all, and he doesn't try to explain. Her gaze falls on the dried blood in his fingernails, trails up his arms, stops where his heart is. (Where it should be.)

She turns away.

_It's sure to kill me if you leave me,  
__so I'll leave you gagged and bound._

He'd forgotten how strong she is. The ropes dig into her skin but she keeps struggling, even manages to push him off her at one point. But he's stronger (now) and he forces her down the stairs, slams the door behind them.

She turns to face him, every inch of her trembling, and his heart shivers in response. He's timed it perfectly, and as long as she plays her part, it will be okay.

(It will all be okay.)

As soon as he pulls the knife out of his pocket, she screams. It's a wailing, keening, _screeching_ sound, and it drains her of her energy. She slumps against the wall and he swoops in, gags her, returns the room to silence. Her eyes are full of tears, full of hate and rage and.

Yes. Fear.

One scream was enough; he doesn't want to go deaf.

He wants to hear them beg for their lives.

_I won't reside, never abide,  
__won't live my life caught in a lie._

Lydia had begged him to fight, had told him never to give up. He hadn't even tried. There's blood drip-**drip**-_dripping_ on the floor and someone opens the door. Holds it wide, frozen in place by sheer horror. Just long enough for Stiles to finish what he started. Long enough to watch Lydia die. (Too late.)

Scott hurls himself down the stairs, tackles Stiles to the ground. The knife slides from Stiles' hand and hits the ground, and Scott looks up just in time to see Lydia take her last breath.

A scream dies in her throat and now Scott's howling, swearing, _begging_, and Stiles just lies there laughing.

His jeans are covered in blood.

_Baby don't scream,  
__you know I did this all for you and me,  
__tell me why!_

Their faces skitter through his mind, a parade of bloody conquests. Some of them had screamed, some of them had cried, all of them had begged. Stiles had done the same, back before the demon became him and he became the demon.

He'd told Lydia not to scream, had tried to explain why he was doing this, but she didn't listen. Scott won't listen either, so he doesn't try. He just lies where he is, Scott holding him down, howling for a pack that doesn't exist anymore, mourning a friend who never existed in the first place.

_Don't fucking scream,  
__you know I did this all just for me._

Despite its name, Echo House is quiet.

Stiles taps his fingernails against the floor, sitting criss-cross-applesauce, a smirk on his face. There's still blood on his hands (they couldn't quite wash that off). There's still murder in his heart (they couldn't quite beat that out). There's still Stiles, but he's the only one left.

His clean white robe is crinkled, his smirk slipping.

A doctor approaches. Rattles off a list of symptoms, asks a few questions. Shakes his head sadly and walks away.

When he comes back an hour later, Stiles hasn't moved. The doctor seems unnerved, clicking his pen and scratching his head. Then he tells him something that Stiles already figured out, but it makes him smile anyway.

(_There never was a nogitsune._)

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End file.
